Down the Line
by arcanelegacy
Summary: A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote it simply for fun (and because I really like these characters).

**Summary: **A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing.)

**Author's Note: **Many thousands of thanks to cannedcoelcanth for betaing this for me. Without her, I probably never would've gotten to posting again. 3

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

The sun beat hard against his legs, slowly cooking them under his dark jeans. Guillermo Rodriguez shifted, trying to find a spot of shade to hide them in. The movement sent trickles of sweat rolling down his back.

_This had better be worth it, _he thought, shifting again and looking around the open-air bar. He hoped to find and flag down the bar's owner, but Vargas was nowhere to be found.

_Figures_. Well. Rodriguez was just going to have to do this completely sober, then. He could do that. Pig, for all his habits, neuroses, and his particular distaste for personal hygiene, was hardly the biggest challenge he'd ever faced.

Rodriguez suppressed a small chuckle at that and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Okay," he said. "What've you got?"

Across the table from him, Pig wrung his chubby hands and swept his dark eyes around the bar. In halting, broken English, he replied, "Something special. Something very, very special."

Rodriguez rolled his eyes. If there was one thing he hated on the Market, it was the dealers' tendency to upsell and exaggerate the quality of their products. For everyone else, that probably worked. Rodriguez didn't care. The T-Virus was the T-Virus, and he wanted it. "Pig, to you, _everything_ is special."

"It is!" Pig insisted, his voice going high and shrill. He flinched and glanced nervously around the bar again. Dropping his voice and switching to Spanish, Pig added, "It is, señor, I promise it is! It's very special!"

"Pig, I don't _care_ how special it is. I just want to know _what_ it is." Rodriguez jabbed a finger at Pig and went on, "For all I know, you're trying to sell me some Kool-Aid in a cute little vial and some hoaxed footage proving the lunar landing never happened."

That did it.

Pig clamped his mouth shut, screwed his face up, and leveled Rodriguez with a glare. The two men stared at each other for a few long minutes before Pig threw up his hands, bent over, and fiddled around with the briefcase he'd set under the table at the beginning of their meeting. When he rose again, he set a small vial down on the table. "It's called T-Loki."

Rodriguez grinned. _That's more like it. _No lies, no hooks, no cheesy sales pitch, just the straight and honest exchange of goods and services. Gingerly, he reached out and touched the vial with a finger. It was cool to the touch and more than three-quarters full of a dark liquid that left a greenish-blue residue on the glass. Surprisingly enough, most of the T-virus samples Rodriguez had encountered over the past ten years were colored – some purple, some pink, some blue. He'd even had one that was dark yellow and glowed, for one reason or another, bright orange under black light.

Touching the glass again, Rodriguez said, "T-Loki, huh? What the hell kind of name is T-Loki?" From somewhere on the other end of the bar a cheer went up, followed by a chorus of hearty laughs. "Where did you get it?"

Pig's gaze darted over the Market again. Quickly – too quickly – he replied, "Dealer in Cozumel."

"When?"

"Day ago," Pig replied.

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow. "And you're already pawning it?"

"That's business."

Rodriguez snorted softly to himself. Pig was lying. That wasn't business. Not for Pig, a steadfast creature of habit who never sold a virus within a week of acquiring it…unless the virus was hot. But Rodriguez also doubted he'd be able to get much more information out of Pig, and in ways he didn't want it. He'd known people who'd killed for samples of the T-Virus before. Pig had never seemed like the type, but it had never done Rodriguez any good to assume his peers were incapable of going down that dark road. "All right. How much?"

Pig suddenly grinned. He grinned so wide and broad the laugh lines nearly swallowed his beady little eyes. Between the shade and their natural darkness, they looked black.

Like a shark's.

"For you, my friend, I'll make a special deal."

* * *

Rodriguez didn't leave the Market in a hurry, though Pig did. He'd darted off almost as soon as everything finished changing hands, disappearing into the maze of low, mud brick and stucco structures that made up most of the Market. Rodriguez watched him go, wondering if maybe the _something special_ about the virus tucked safely under Rodriguez's side of the table was not what it could do, but how desperately the guys Pig had gotten it from were going to want it back.

For his part, Rodriguez had finally managed to flag Vargas down and had gotten himself a drink. He milked it, taking slow, even sips, quietly delaying his walk home in the heat. While he drank, he mulled his plans for the rest of the day. He'd call Graves – his Alliance contact – as soon as he got home and got the virus put away. Tell the old man he had another sample to send their way and kindly ask for his reimbursement and fees. After that, well. Maybe he'd throw a little caution to the wind and have a look into that dealer in Cozumel, try and find out why Pig had seemed so desperate to get the T-Loki sample off his hands and into someone else's.

He drew a hand down his face. Suicide, that's what that was. In the market, you didn't go after the source. You dealt. You bought and sold and you didn't ask questions that weren't really important. The Alliance, though not a terrible threat, hung over everyone's heads like a dark cloud. Anyone caught sniffing around…well, those stupid enough to do so usually had connections to the cops or the Alliance, and the consequences for those poor bastards were usually pretty dire.

But Rodriguez…had different motives than most guys out here. He already felt he was living on borrowed time, for one, so maybe it was time to cash in, throw the Alliance a bone, and go out feeling like he'd done as much good as any man could. And hey, maybe this time the Alliance could get in there and stop an outbreak _before_ it happened.

_Yeah_, he thought. _And Pig will sprout wings and fly._

Rodriguez swirled the bronze liquid around in the glass. Sometimes he felt like a sleaze, working as an honest dealer while secretly taking money from the BSAA. Everyone on the Market suspected the Alliance had insiders, but no one suspected him. Not with his, ah, _exemplary_ record with the cartels. Even if they did suspect him, no one dared accuse him. He still had friends back in the cartels.

Downing the last of his drink, he slapped a few bucks down on the table, pinning them under his class. It was time to go home, time to finish taking care of the last bits of his business for the day.

Then maybe he'd grab a nap and beat out the last of this dreadful heat.

* * *

Rodriguez's place was a low-slung, single-story concrete building he affectionately called _the bunker_. It was almost three miles away from town, down a muddy track barely wide enough for his Jeep to pass through. He kept a careful eye on his surroundings as he walked back along the track, skirting the deeper puddles as best he could.

He didn't expect anyone to follow him – all the dealers in town knew where he lived already, just like he already knew where all of them lived. Besides, it was Market custom to leave other dealers well enough alone as long as your business with them hadn't gone sour.

Even so, it never, _ever_ hurt to be wary. That, at least, was one piece of advice Rodriguez had gladly taken from his last employer. The rest – mostly about getting rid of bodies and blood – he generally chose to ignore.

When he reached the bunker, Rodriguez slipped around the side, to where the front door was hidden behind a series of vines and some plant with leaves that stuck fast to his pants whenever the humidity was bad. He took a few minutes to pry every leaf and leaf-part clinging to his jeans and his long sleeves before unlocked the door and ducking inside.

The bunker was cool and dark, as always. While he personally would have preferred a design that allowed for a little more natural light, having few windows kept the heat and his enemies out better than anything else.

Rodriguez quickly crossed the threshold and into the bunker, heading towards a closet at the back. In the floor there, carefully hidden, was the door that led to the basement. He opened it and slipped inside, flicking on a lights witch as he descended the stairs.

The fluorescent lights slowly flickered on, rattling and popping angrily at him. They needed replacing at some point soon, but for now still managed to chug along even if they did give the whole joint a strobe effect.

Along the back wall of the basement were four small vats cold storage, courtesy of the BSAA. He tried not to think about where they got the money to get him these things as he strode across the floor to the vats, gently the briefcase on a cheap card table he kept by the vats for this purpose.

When he opened the briefcase, manila folders thick with paper spilled out, tumbling to the floor. Rodriguez swore, rolling his eyes before dropping to his knees and gathering up the paperwork. Most of the pages were full of graphs and charts, and the others were packed full of the dullest, most boring jargon he'd ever encountered. Still, he skimmed each page as he put them back in their folders, his eyes glazing over before he'd even hit the bottom of each one.

Only one set of pages jumped out at him. Stapled together, he guessed they were a report detailing what the virus had done during trials. Most of it was standard T-virus – zombie humans, dogs, and cats, wild mutations in plants, insects, arachnids, amphibians, and reptiles, spread through contact with infected tissue – nothing he hadn't seen before.

But towards the bottom, in bolded text boxed in by the faint gray of copied highlighter, Rodriguez spotted two words: _asymptomatic carriers._

He rocked back onto his heels. The words seemed familiar. He knew the term from somewhere, but could quite place it – and therefore didn't entirely know what it meant. He only knew that, for some reason, it made him think of Typhoid Fever.

Rodriguez tucked the report back into the file and set the whole stack aside before putting the virus away in the cryogenic storage containers. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Nothing about this was sitting well with him anymore.

As soon as the virus was put away, Rodriguez grabbed the report and headed back upstairs. The folder felt heavy in his hands, and he felt like the words _asymptomatic carriers _had been branded onto his brain. He _knew_ he knew the term from somewhere. Since his memory was proving useless, his spotty internet connection and Wikipedia had to help fill him in.

Typhoid Fever was a deadly disease, at least for most of the unlucky people who caught it. But for some, the disease barely registered as a cold, and for others, it never registered at all. They could carry it and spread it, all without ever showing symptoms themselves. The most famous of these asymptomatic carriers was a woman called Typhoid Mary. She had been a healthy carrier for Typhoid Fever and had infected dozens of people before the health department tracked her down and locked her up.

Rodriguez looked at the report again. The words _asymptomatic carrier_ were still there, still bound by that faded gray highlighter color. He frantically flipped through the pages in the report, trying to find out more and fast.

Rodriguez struggled to think. Typhoid Mary had infected people by cooking for them, transferring the bacteria from her hands into their desserts, which had always been her specialty. The T-Virus spread differently – as a blood borne pathogen, it spread through contact with infected tissue. T-Loki, according to the report, spread through contact, like earlier strains of the T-Virus, but not infected tissue. T-Loki spread like the common cold, through contact with infected surfaces. As long as the virus's incubation period…

Here Rodriguez set to flipping through the report again, dragging his finger down ever page as he searched frantically for that stupid number.

There. There it was. Towards the middle, at the top of the page, next to a diagram of a cell. Three hours. The incubation period for the T-Loki virus was three hours from initial infection to the first symptoms.

One healthy carrier…that would be all it would take. One healthy carrier and the virus could spread the world over in weeks, faster than anyone – the BSAA, the military, the CDC, anyone – could contain it.

With every progressive thought, Rodriguez felt a tighter knot form in his stomach. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

_Call the B.S.A.A.,_ Rodriguez told himself. _Talk to Graves. _Those were his options, weren't they? Call his contacts. Tell them he had a very dangerous sample in his possession and he needed someone to look at it right away – and no, he couldn't ship it to them. Not this time.

He pushed a hand through his dark hair.

If he couldn't ship it, he'd need someone to come down here and have a look at the virus. Graves…but Graves was no expert on viruses. He headed the BSAA's coordination with the military more than anything else. He was a bureaucrat, though at sixty-something with a decorated military career, Graves had earned the right to a desk and a job with fewer risks.

_There is no other way. _

Reaching around to his back pocket, Rodriguez pulled out his phone. He flipped it open and started dialing with one hand, eyes still locked on the report. He was reading it in more detail now, mouthing each word as he passed over it.

Then the phone began to vibrate in his hand. Rodriguez jumped, looking at the phone as though it were possessed.

The caller ID said _Graves_.

Rodriguez answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear, setting the report down on his couch in the same motion. "Yeah?" When Graves didn't say anything, he added, "Whaddya want?"

Given the timing, he expected Graves to ask him to keep an eye out for a specific T-Virus strain or to ask for some information or to warn him about some kind of raid – the usual deal.

But…well, that wasn't what happened.

In his rough commander's voice, a voice he used on his subordinates, a voice Rodriguez hadn't heard him use in well over a decade, Graves said, "It's been a long time, Lieutenant Coen."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Greetings, readers! This is a revised version of Down the Line Chapter one (as of April 9, 2012). For the original version of this chapter (if you're interested in comparing the old version with this one; I promise that this one is much higher quality than the last one) please see my livejournal (I have the same name there, arcanelegacy), under the tag "[fic] down the line".


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote it simply for fun (and because I really like these characters).

**Summary: **A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing.)

**Author's Note: **Many thousands of thanks to cannedcoelcanth for betaing this for me. Without her, I probably never would've gotten to posting again. 3 Additionally, I offer an e-cookie to anyone who catches the game reference I snuck into this chapter. :P

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

Billy felt his blood run cold. No one – not even Graves, who knew damn near everything there _was_ to know about Billy Coen, past, present, and future – had called him by that name in over ten years.

"C-colonel?" Billy stumbled over the word. "Sir?"

Graves chuckled. "You're losin' your touch, Lieutenant. The Billy Coen I know wouldn't have missed a beat even after a bombshell like that."

Billy gaped. The Rainier Graves he knew didn't give compliments stared, mouth opening and closing without sound, before he straightened and said, "Temporary lapse, sir. Won't happen again."

"There's the soldier. Knew he was still in there."

"Semper fi," Billy said. _Always loyal._ The words came on automatic, but left a bad taste in his mouth.

Marines with long, honorable careers carried those words to their graves. Marines who still felt something stir in their bellies when they saw the flag waving proudly in the breeze said those words and meant them. But Billy's career had been short and disastrous. In the end his government had betrayed him, sending him to die to bury a PR nightmare. He had been nothing more than an easy expense, a small price to pay to calm the angry tides of constituents.

Shaking his head to collect himself, Billy asked, "Why are you calling, Colonel?"

Graves didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy. "Briggs is dead. Killed himself a few days ago."

Billy couldn't help but take a small step back in shock. Eric Briggs had been one of the other survivors in Africa. They had been friends. At least, Billy had _thought_ they were friends.

Briggs had later testified against Billy at the trial.

Swearing to himself, Billy pushed a hand through his hair. "What happened?"

"He'd been seeing a psychiatrist for a while. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He'd been doing well – until the…incident in Kijuju."

"You sent _Briggs_ on that mission?"

Graves made a noise. "No, of course not. But Kijuju was so close to…"

Billy swallowed. He knew where Kijuju was. He knew how dangerously close to Luapula it was.

Graves's tone softened as he went on: "Judging from the note he left for his sister to find, that was all it took."

Billy tried to swallow again, but his mouth had gone dry. A note. _Dammit, Briggs. _He pushed his hand through his hair again. Graves wouldn't be calling him if the note weren't important. He wouldn't be calling Billy by that name – by his _real_ name – if it weren't…

"There was a note," Billy said, keeping his voice flat, his tone neutral.

"Briggs…talked about Africa. About the mission, about you…" Graves paused. "He told the whole story."

Billy snorted. Anger bubbled up inside him, rising in his chest like bile. "And what 'whole story' is that?" he spat. "The last time Briggs told the _whole story_, I ended up in court, charged with killing twenty-three innocent civilians _by myself_." Billy began to pace around the room, hoping somehow that that would keep the memories from rushing back.

It didn't.

Four people had survived the jungle long enough to make it to that village. Briggs, Welles, Donovan, and himself. To this day, when he closed his eyes, Billy could still feel the sticky humidity, so many thousands of times worse than the worst day here. He could still hear the birds and the bugs all chirping and buzzing so loudly and so often that their sounds _were_ the silence, and anything quieter than that was just eerie. He could still see the village, with their mud-brick and leaf huts, their fire pits, their handmade pots.

Hell, he could still see the meat they had hanging over the fire to cook.

Most of all, though, most of all – he could still see _them_. The villagers. There had been more than a dozen of them, all clustered together and wide-eyed with terror as big men with guns and anger in their voices pushed and shouted and herded them all to the center of their village, kicking at their heels with heavy boots whenever a villager didn't move fast enough.

There were no men there, no terrorists, no weapons. Their sources had been wrong. There were just the women, the children, and the old ones in the village that day, and not a single one of them had done a damn thing wrong, no matter what it had cost the unit to get out there.

Billy had lunged the second Welles opened fire. By then it was already too late, and three young children were dead, but Billy thought he could at least save the others…

He'd woken up in the rescue helicopter a long time later, his head throbbing where the butt of Welles's gun had collided with his skull. No one looked at him. No one asked how he was doing, wanted to see if he was okay. The copilot had turned around just once, a look of raw disgust on his face, as if Billy were the single most despicable human on the planet.

The cuffs weren't there yet, but they might as well have been.

"It's enough," Graves said, his voice suddenly interrupting Billy's thoughts, "that NCIS has opened an investigation."

"_What_?"

"Times have changed. The military's starting to own up to the mistakes it made sending you boys in there in the first place. Briggs' note casts enough doubt on your conviction now that people want the truth. Look, I know this is a lot to process, but this could clear your name. You could…"

That was more than Billy wanted to hear. "Stop," he said. He was surprised to find his voice thick. "_Stop_."

Graves fell silent, and then it was Billy's turn to talk. "Let them open an investigation," he snarled. "Let them do the work _now_ that they should have done back in ninety-seven. Let them find out I was the _one person,_ the one goddamned person, that had tried to stop that fucking massacre. I hope they uncover the whole fucking truth. And then I hope they fucking _choke_ on it."

Semper-fucking-fi.

Billy twisted and began to pace again. His gaze darted quickly over the main room landing on the manila folder he'd tossed aside when his phone went off. He thought of the virus, that little vial of blue-green liquid…and what it could do. He felt a chill.

_Asymptomatic carriers_.

He started to laugh, a low, deep chuckle that quickly morphed into a hearty roar. Of _course_ his case was coming up now. Why not? He only had a small sample of a virus capable of wiping all life on this planet sitting in cold storage in his basement. He only _needed_ his ability to remain an anonymous man with a penchant for wearing long sleeves even in the horrible wet heat of the tropics. He was only trying to do the right thing again.

_Dammit, Briggs._

Wiping tears out of his eyes, Billy reigned his tone back in and said, "Believe it or not, Colonel, I was going to call just before you called me. We've got a problem."

* * *

Graves let his hand rest on the handset long after he hung up the phone. He felt heavy, like his conversation with Billy had slowly turned everything in him to lead. For years he'd hoped against all apparent hope that the former lieutenant's case would be reopened, his conviction cast into doubt, and that someone, finally, would know that Billy Coen did not slaughter twenty-three people in a remote village near the borders of Luapula and Kijuju.

Now it finally had. But it had come to light in such a way – Graves hadn't mentioned it to Billy, but Briggs had seemingly done everything he could to make sure his suicide got as much attention as possible – that there was no way to keep it out of the news, no matter how many favors Graves called in.

Finally letting his hand fall from the handset, Graves took off his glasses and rubbed at his temples.

Billy had gotten involved with the drug cartels in Mexico not long after escaping Raccoon City. He'd been their transporter, running drugs and other supplies wherever his employers wanted them to go. He'd gotten away from the cartels almost six years ago, now, and thankfully without anyone coming after him. Graves worried, however, that if Billy's identity were to come out, his life would be in grave danger.

The T-Loki virus Billy had in his possession only complicated the situation further. Billy had made it very clear that the virus sample was live, dangerous, and likely not the only sample out on the market right now. Someone needed to look at it – and quickly.

Graves was not that someone. He was no expert on the T-Virus. He wouldn't be able to do any of the analysis T-Loki required. But sending someone else in his place came with its own risks. What if the agent recognized Billy? What if the cartels came calling after Briggs's suicide hit the news, and only Billy and the BSAA agent were there to try and hold them off? Dropping his hand from his temple, he reached for his glasses and put them back on before reaching for the phone again. While all BSAA agents were trained to deal with a number of situations, including combat, there were still only a scant few who could do both the viral analysis on T-Loki _and_ defend themselves against all the worst case scenarios Graves could picture in his head.

And of those agents, Graves could only think of one he trusted just enough to meet Billy face to face, even if she was the STARS member who originally reported him dead.

He dialed. The phone rang, then kicked to voicemail. He left a message for Agent Chambers, asking her to come up to his office as soon as she could. He signed off, hung up the phone, and then sat back to wait.

Rebecca came up within the hour. He heard her knock on the door, calling, "Director Graves? You wanted to see me?"

"Come on in, Agent Chambers, the door's open." He watched as Rebecca slipped into his office, closing the door behind her. Then he smiled and said, "Thank you for coming. Please, sit down."

Rebecca frowned, hesitating just for a moment before taking a seat in the chair across from Graves' desk.

As soon as she was settled, Graves jumped right into things. "I got a call from one of our contacts down this morning. He's got new a sample of the T-Virus he wants us to have a look at." He paused. "He's also concerned something could happen in transit, so instead of bringing it here, I'd like to send you to it."

"Me?" Rebecca asked, startled. "But, sir, I'm not – "

Graves held up a hand and offered Rebecca a sympathetic smile. "I know you're not a field agent, Agent Chambers. I do. But you're our expert, and the best person for this job. I won't trust this mission to anyone other than you."

Rebecca was silent for a few long moments. "Where would I be going?"

"Mercado Negro."

"Mercado Negro?" Rebecca echoed.

Graves nodded, picking a folder up from his desk and offering it to her. "This is the man you'll be meeting there."

Rebecca took the folder, flipped it open, and began reading. Graves waited silently as she read, his stomach churning. Rebecca Chambers was a smart, quick young woman. He had seen her pick up on little details others had missed innumerable times over the past several years. In a way, Graves half-expected her to look up and ask what the man described in the file was hiding.

"Why aren't you going?" she asked, suddenly, looking up from the text-heavy pages. "Or at least coming along? I thought he was your guy."

Graves laced his fingers together, resting them on his desk. He swallowed. "I have other business, I'm afraid, and lack the qualifications you do."

"And he's going to let you send me instead?" Rebecca gestured down at the file. "It says here he doesn't like to work with anyone but you."

"He doesn't like to, no. This is an extremely special circumstance."

Rebecca frowned and then looked over the file again, her gaze intense. "You really trust this guy, huh?"

Graves took a deep breath and nodded. "I do, Agent Chambers. Enough that when he says he's worried, we should _all_ be worried."

* * *

Cozumel had never been one of Billy's favorite cities. He'd spent some time here in his early days, just after making it to the Peninsula but before he'd fallen in with the cartels on the mainland. He hadn't liked the city then and no matter how many times he went back, he couldn't seem to shake the fear he felt at the sound of every American accent. Apparently ten years and a signed death certificate weren't to convince him that someone wouldn't recognize him.

Still, the heavy turnover of seasonal visitors and tourists made for some easy anonymity, and that made the city a favorite for dealers, drug runners, and information salesman alike. Business was almost always booming in Cozumel.

He arrived in the city several hours before the Alliance agent was due to arrive. Nerves were already tangling up in his gut. Graves hadn't mentioned just whom the Alliance would be sending out, but Billy had a gut feeling he knew just who she would be.

Who else _could_ they send? Rebecca Chambers was the best.

Billy dropped his Jeep near the center of town, about midway between the airport and the docks. He rested there for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to calm his nerves. He'd deal with the Alliance contact when the plane came in. For now he had other things to worry about.

He ran a huge risk doing this kind of digging. A huge risk. Even rookie dealers knew that asking too many questions was a quick and easy way to call attention to yourself and your motives—and in a business as rife with paranoia and overclocked survival instincts as black market trade, that was often the last mistake you _could_ make.

Even so, over the past decade Billy had cultivated a few contacts who focused on gathering and selling Vargas back at the Market, these guys put themselves in positions where they were most likely to overhear the juiciest bits of information, and Billy wanted to see if any of them had anything that might clue him in to where T-Loki had come from – and why Pig was so eager to get rid of it.

He started his search at the line of bars and restaurants along the beachfront. They were a hotspot for dealers looking to blend in while still being free to make deals, and he knew several informants who doubled as waiters and bartenders there. They were mercenaries, though, and owed him no more loyalty than anyone else. Any information to be gotten from them had to be coaxed out carefully, in case he accidentally gave them even better information to pass along to someone else.

He had no luck with them. None of his contacts along the beachfront knew anything or had anything useful for him, claiming that everything had been quiet for the past several months.

Billy ordered a beer at the last bar and spent a few minutes sitting with his feet up as he drank.

He had one more source he _could_ try, but he'd promised to leave Mateo alone a long while back, after Billy's last search for information had landed Mateo in a deep cenote in the middle of the jungle. It had been an accident, a freak sequence of events involving treasure hunters, drug cartels, some weird story about Sir Francis Drake. In the end, though, Mateo was stuck in that cenote for almost eight hours before Billy had been able to go back and rescue him.

Downing the last of his beer, Billy slapped the glass back down on the table and glanced at his watch as he rose. He still had about forty minutes before the Alliance agent's plane came in. He set off down the street, enjoying the nice breeze coming in off the ocean to the west, and headed towards Mateo's souvenir shop.

"Oh, no," Mateo said as soon as Billy walked into the shop. "No. I'm not helping you! Not after last time!" He backed up, pressing himself against the wall.

Billy rolled his eyes, stopping just inside the door. "You were only down in that cenote for a few hours."

"Eight! And there were _bodies_ in there!"

"There were not."

"One of them grabbed my leg!"

"That was a root. Your pant leg got caught on it. Remember? It was still hooked on to your jeans when we brought you up."

Mateo folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. "No. You promised."

"I know, and I'm sorry," Billy said. "But I need your help."

Mateo glared at him for a long minute before throwing up his hands as a sign of surrender. "Fine. _Fine. _But you need to work on your sad-face, man. It sucks. What do you want?"

"Anything weird been going on around here? Anyone acting like they've got someone on their back?"

"More so than usual?" Mateo snorted out a laugh at his own joke. "Nah, there hasn't been too much of nothin' goin' on around here." He paused. "'Cept the black trucks. Anyone tell you about the black trucks yet?"

"Nope. What black trucks?"

"They were in here….week ago? Maybe? Yeah – same night as the big fireworks show over at the hotel. Pair of 'em. Nice and clean. Tinted windows. They were parked down along the street, bunch of mean looking guys in street clothes got out. Looked like they were tryin' to blend in, but it's kinda hard to make a big dude look like a tourist, y'know? Anyway, they set off down the street and met up with some guy who'd gotten out of a white car, and they all set off down the street together." Mateo leaned back, tapping an finger against his jaw. "Guy from the white car was lean, not like the big dudes. He was obviously their boss. Kept hollering and barking at 'em. Thought I heard him say something about getting something back, but I dunno."

"Is that it?"

Mateo grinned. "Guy in the white car came back long before the other guys did. And when they came back they were wearing different outfits. Still tourist-y, but different outfits. Next day the cops find a head on the beach."

Billy frowned. Beheadings were pretty common around here, as they were wherever the cartels did their business. Beheading someone sent a clear message as well as made it difficult to determine cause of death. The bodies were usually disposed of in some other way.

"I know what you're thinking," Mateo said, leaning in close. "But they found the guy's body a ways away. Showed signs of torture."

Billy's eyebrows rose. That changed things. Not even the greenest of the cartels' assassins left the body near the head. "Who was it, Mateo?" he asked. "Who did they find?"

"René de Silva."

_René de Silva._ Billy's eyebrows rose. He knew that name. René sold viruses, not drugs. He was a bit player, not a big name, with on and off success in the market for the past four years or so. There had been some big issue around him a little over a year back, when he got caught stealing viruses from other dealers.

"Well?" Mateo asked, interrupting Billy's thoughts.

Billy glanced down at his watch. Time to head out. Though he still wasn't sure how this information fit in with T-Loki, he nodded at Mateo and said, "Thanks, Mateo. I owe you."

Mateo grinned. "Always do."

* * *

The airport was as crowded as ever. Hundreds of tourists clogged the concourse, filling it with a cacophony of chatter, shouts, screaming children, crying babies, and a half-dozen even voices projected over the loudspeakers. Billy had to suppress another wave of nerves as soon as he walked inside, and compulsively checked to make sure his sleeves still covered his tattoo.

He'd thought once, a long, long time ago, about getting it removed. But then he remembered the way Rebecca had once glossed her hands over the designs, following the swirling tribal patterns with her fingers, and he couldn't ever get rid of it. Time would change them both physically, but if he ever hoped to stumble across her again, he wanted to be easy to find.

Of course, if he was right, there was a very good chance they'd stumble across each other today.

Billy always met Graves at the bottom of the escalators, by a souvenir stand with a bright yellow backdrop. It was hideous but noticeable, and had served Billy well for the past five years. He'd stressed in his last call with Graves that whoever was coming had to know to meet him there. He milled about near the shop, hands firmly stuffed into his pockets. He tried to keep himself calm, make sure he stayed alert but nonchalant, even as his heart hammered in his chest.

Ten years. How much had she changed? Would she recognize him? How quickly? Billy shifted and crossed his arms across his chest. He scanned the crowd, then looked down at his watch. If the boards were right her plane had come in on time, and she should be there any minute.

He licked his lips and took a deep breath. _Easy_, he told himself, employing a calming technique he'd used back in his days as a Marine. _Steady._

When his heart rate had slowed, Billy looked up, only to feel the blood rush through his ears as his heart rate jumped back up again. There she was. Rebecca Chambers. She was older and taller now, but she still walked with the same cute daintiness she had back in the Umbrella Management Training Facility.

He took two involuntary steps toward her before forcing himself to stop. He waited, feeling like his whole body was vibrating with nerves and anticipation.

Ten years.

He watched her brow furrow tightly as she scanned the airport. He caught her eye, watched the creases in her forehead shift and change as her expression shifted from irritation to surprise.

"Billy?"

The next thing he knew, he was moving, and then he had reached her and his arms went out almost of their own accord and he pulled her close, arms around her tiny shoulders, his temple pressed into her hair.

* * *

**Author's Note: **As with chapter one, this is a revised version of chapter two. See my livejournal (same name) for the original version. Made quite a few changes to this one in the editing process - mostly POVs, but there's a few whole new scenes in it. :D They help set the tone for later parts of the story much, much better than the original drafts did, I promise. This is almost a cohesive story now, instead of me halfway winging it as I went along.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote it simply for fun (and because I really like these characters).

**Summary: **A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing.)

**Author's Note: **Many thousands of thanks to cannedcoelcanth for betaing this for me. Without her, I probably never would've gotten to posting again. 3

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"You can't call me that," Billy hissed in her ear. Rebecca, her heart pounding, was very much aware of the small movements his head made as he shook it from side to side. "You can't use my real name."

_Of course_, she thought, flinching. This man was not Billy Coen. Billy Coen was dead. She'd made sure of that. This man was Guillermo Rodriguez, and he bought viruses for the Alliance.

Presently, Rebecca felt Billy's grip loosen and he took a step away from her. Forcing what she hoped was an easy but apologetic smile, she said, "Sorry. I know. You're Guillermo Rodriguez."

Billy smiled and reached out, resting a hand on her shoulders. "Yeah," he said, his voice a little distant. He snapped back into himself with a small shake of his head before adding, "Is that everything you brought with you?"

"Yeah." Rebecca stooped to pick up the duffel bag she'd dropped in shock when Billy had grabbed her. "We travel light in the Alliance."

"You want me to get something?"

"Oh…sure. Here." Rebecca handed Billy the duffel bag, taking the second he took to throw it over his shoulder to quickly study him. He was leaner now than he had been, and his hair was shorter than she remembered, but styled the same way. He had a tan, or at least a tan on his face and hands – she could see the lines when his long sleeves inched up his arm.

"What're you lookin' at, dollface?"

Rebecca felt heat rise in her face. She'd looked for too long. "Nothing," she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Just making sure you are who you say you are."

"I haven't changed _that_ much, have I?"

"No. But it never hurts to be sure."

Billy chuckled, then held out a hand to her. Rebecca eyed it, unsure of what he wanted. She didn't need him carrying her laptop bag, too.

"Take it," he said softly. "Everyone here saw me hug you. We gotta keep up pretenses."

_Oh, _Rebecca thought, then: _Pretenses?_ Slowly she reached out, as bidden, and took Billy's hand, stealing another glance at him as she did. He was scanning the airport. His expression was neutral, but Rebecca thought she could sense a small undercurrent of nerves coursing through him.

Rebecca shifted her weight. Suddenly she felt like they were back in the training facility again, and she was watching him for clues, hoping his body language would fill her in on something she might be missing. She glanced around. What was she missing here?

As if somehow sensing her thoughts, Billy shifted his grip on her hand and gave it good, reassuring squeeze. _Pretenses,_ Rebecca reminded herself quickly. She hoped that the flushing on her face was hidden by whatever remained of her makeup. _Pretenses. Gotta keep up pretenses._

Hand still laced through hers, Billy led Rebecca through the concourse and out into a bright, sunny parking lot, then over to a Jeep covered almost entirely in mud.

"You go off-roading a lot?" Rebecca asked, mentally cringing at how stiff the words sounded to her ears.

"Sort of." Billy dropped her hand, yanked open the trunk and put Rebecca's bag inside. "I, uh, kinda live off the beaten path. There are no good roads out that way."

"Oh."

"It's a nice place," Billy added quickly. "All things considered, I mean. I've got electricity and running water and satellite TV and internet access, at least." He closed the trunk and paused, his hand still against the back of the car. "You hungry?" he asked, turning to her. "It's a three hour drive to my place once we get back on the mainland. If you need anything, now's the time to speak up." He grinned. "Plus, it's Cozumel. Not every day you get to come to a place like this, yeah?"

"Yeah," Rebecca agreed, glancing around. She thought she could hear the surf over the roar of jet engines taking off and coming in for landing, but wasn't sure. She could see palm trees everywhere, smell the ocean on the breeze, feel the ocean air surrounding her, layering her skin and hair and clothes with salt. The sun was shining, and the warmth felt absolutely wonderful after the cold airport and the autumn chill taking hold of DC. Billy's offer was tempting. She'd never been anywhere like Cozumel before – no time or space in her schedule for it – and she could almost hear her mother's voice in her head, reminding her to take some time for herself every now and again.

"If you say no, there are a few spots by my place that aren't half bad."

Rebecca was tempted, at least a little, to throw all caution to the wind and demand they book a hotel for the night right there in town. They could do some sight-seeing, maybe hit up a couple of local bars, and Rebecca could see just what some liquid courage would enable her to say…or do.

But then she remembered why she was in Cozumel in the first place, and she shook her head. "I'd like to get going," she said, smiling. "Rain check till we get to your place?" Nope, that phrasing hadn't helped any.

"No problem, sweetheart. Hop on in and we'll head over to the ferry. Next one should be getting ready to go about the time we get there."

Rebecca opened the passenger door and swung herself inside the Jeep, draping her laptop bag's strap across her legs to keep the bag from sliding all over the floor. "The ferry?"

Billy flopped in beside her, cramming a battered set of keys into the ignition. "Only way off this rock. There's no bridge off the island."

* * *

The ferry ride went smoothly enough. Rebecca spent most of it staring out over the bright blue water, basking in the glorious light of the sun, and wishing she could have both of those things without all the salt. She really wasn't a big fan of the salt.

Billy had stayed back, away from the railing and carefully ensconced in a dark patch of shade, but Rebecca never once felt his eyes leave her. He still seemed nervous, but that changed almost as soon as they got on the mainland. Whatever had been bothering him in Cozumel seemed to dissipate, and he relaxed visibly.

Rebecca relaxed, too. Cozumel was pretty, but felt completely overrun with people, conditions she hadn't ever really liked. Even the ferry had been packed full of people, mostly tourists, and having that many people crammed in such close quarters made Rebecca nervous.

After the ferry, they got back in the muddy Jeep and set off again – southwest, away from the road most of the tourists were taking. One by one the few cars and trucks that had also gone their way turned off onto muddy tracks, leaving Rebecca and Billy alone on the road. Eventually even their road turned into a muddy track, bisecting fields of sugarcane and tobacco, and then even the fields gave way to stands of wild jungle.

For the most part, she and Billy had made the trip in silence. Billy would point out a few things here and there, mostly birds, but beyond that he stayed quiet. They hadn't said much to each other in the training facility, either, but at least that silence had been to let them both _hear_ whatever monster might try to sneak up on them next. This was just…awkward.

Rebecca stole a glance at Billy. In many ways, he hadn't changed at all. He still had that same face, the same tilt to his head when he spoke, the same way of somehow noticing everything – even things he seemed to pay no attention to at all. He still chided her and called her pet names in a way that was both patronizing and endearing. He still made her feel awkward and uneasy in her own skin, while at the same time making her feel frustrated and irate, like she had to prove her worth to him all over again.

In other ways, though, this was not the man she knew. They'd both been jumpy – on the train, in the training facility, even in the forest after they'd escaped – but now it seemed like that state of heightened alertness and adrenaline and fear were a part of his daily routine, even though he faked nonchalance well.

Chris had told her once that the black market trade in strains of the T-Virus was cutthroat and dangerous. It had high payoffs, but high risk as well. Was that why Billy seemed so vigilant? The Alliance knew relatively little about what was out there – another one of the many reasons Billy was so valuable an asset – but Rebecca assumed the virus trade was like any other illegal market. The good dealers lived. The bad ones died.

Rebecca looked down at her hand, the one Billy had held onto as they exited the airport. It wasn't warm anymore, not with his heat, anyway. But she could still feel his palm against it, and she wondered if he remembered that that was the hand he'd grabbed when he pulled her out of that hole in the floor, after the damn eliminators had gotten her.

_She_ hadn't forgotten.

Rebecca glanced at Billy again. She wanted to say _something_. They'd spent so much of the ride in silence, and she had so many questions she wanted to ask.

But she didn't know where to start, or even _how_ to start. And there were some questions that she knew she couldn't ask him.

Like…if he had a family. A wife, kids. A dog.

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with even her own thoughts. _Good for him if he does_, she told herself forcefully, hoping to dam up the sudden wave of disappointment she felt. _He deserves happiness after all he's been through, and you have _no right_ to feel…jealous or angry or whatever it is you feel!_

"You doin' all right over there?" Billy suddenly asked.

Rebecca started and turned. Billy looked between her and the road, an expression of concern on his face.

"Yeah," she said. "Sorry."

"You're looking a little lost, there. You sure?"

Rebecca smiled, mostly to herself. "Yeah. Just thinking." She paused for a second, then asked the first (and probably safest) of her burning questions:"How _did_ you start working for the Alliance? Graves didn't tell me, and it wasn't exactly in your file."

A moment of silence followed – just long enough for Rebecca to wonder if she'd hit a nerve. But then Billy said, "One of your agents started tailing me when I was in Cozumel years back, I think when the Alliance was just starting its campaign against black market virus trade. When he tried to corner me, I turned the tables on him and offered him a deal." Billy shrugged. "He was at least smart enough to realize if I'd seen him coming, other dealers would, too. Your agents are damn easy to spot, but they aren't a pack of fools, so I told him to give Graves a call and he'd vouch for me."

"Wait – you know Director Graves?"

Billy chuckled. "I've known him since I was twenty-five. He was one of my first commanding officers after I joined the Marines."

Rebecca gaped, trying to wrap her head around this. "So he knew you were alive? This whole time? And he—" _let _me _come out here,_ she finished silently. Did…did Graves know she'd turned in Billy's dog tags? She'd thought that fact was attached to Billy's case file. If Graves knew…why send her? Eads was almost as good with the virus as she was, and more eager to go out into the field – _and_ he didn't have a past with Billy Coen.

Did…did that mean Billy asked for her?

She shook her head, clearing all those thoughts out of her brain. They were only making her stomach churn. "How did you know Graves had started working for the Alliance?"

"It's not that hard to keep tabs on somebody." Billy shrugged. "There are people all over the place who do just that. Some of them work for people I know. Wasn't too hard to ask for a favor." He flashed a grin. "There's also Google."

Rebecca's brows knit tightly together. "How did…how did Graves know it was you?"

Billy paused. His voice was heavy when he spoke again. "After they gave me the death sentence, Graves came to visit me. He told me he was going to get me out, file appeals, do something to keep me alive." Billy snorted derisively. "He knew the story that came out at that trial was a bunch of shit, and wanted to stall long enough to get the truth out. But there wasn't really anything he could do about it. America needed someone to blame. I just got the short straw, and I knew it. So I told him, yeah, he'd still see me around, but only if he believed in ghosts.

"When I was talking with that agent, I had him call up Graves then and there, and ask him if he believed in ghosts. It was all I really needed to do." Billy snorted, then laughed. "I was lucky – Graves remembered what I'd said. Asked to talk to me. Pushed everything through himself. I've no idea how. He certainly wasn't Assistant Director then." Billy laughed again, staring out onto the dirt road stretching out for miles before them, as though looking back on those moments. Then he shook his head, turned to her, and asked, "What about you? When did you join the Alliance?"

"Me? Uh… Four years ago in June."

"All of your old team with the Alliance now?"

"Yeah. I was the last."

"How many…?" Billy trailed off, offering her an apologetic smile.

Rebecca raised a hand, waving off his apology. It was a valid question. "Just four of us, including me. Brad made it out of the forest, too, but died in Raccoon City that September."

"Before they razed the city?"

"Yeah."

"When did you leave?"

"Just a few weeks before the outbreak there. Jill had been, ah, _encouraging_ me to leave for months, and I finally did…just in time to watch it fall." Rebecca flexed her hands around her laptop bag's strap. Though she tried not to, she couldn't help but think about the STARS, and whether she could have done anything to save more of them.

She had put Billy before her team, before Enrico and Kenneth and Forest and Richard. She'd put a man she'd only just met before the teammates who never once made her feel too dainty and incapable for police work. While she didn't regret her decision, she still wondered. Would STARS have been so easily cut down had she just tried to convince Enrico to stay with her and rescue Billy? Would Richard had died if Enrico had been on hand to go for the serum? Could she have helped save Brad if she hadn't given in to Jill?

She had joined the BSAA almost six years to the day after the Mansion Incident. It was almost six years too late, and when she had finally signed up Rebecca had vowed to make sure her teammates' deaths weren't in vain. She wasn't a soldier like Chris or Jill, or a mentor like Barry, but she was _smart._ She'd crack the T-Virus wide open if that was what it took.

_That's why Graves sent you,_ she told herself. _Because he knows you're the best. _

She turned her head to force a weak smile at Billy, hoping to reassure him that she was okay. Really. She'd gone and dealt with all of this years ago. He looked at her, his expression pensive.

Then the Jeep hit a pothole and bounced roughly back out again. Rebecca felt herself leave the seat briefly, only to crash back into it violently. Billy whooped, yanking on the steering wheel to dodge another pothole, and pointed out the window. "And we're about there," he said.

Rebecca followed his finger out the windshield and could plainly see blocky shapes of a small, rural town about another mile down the road. When they reached the outskirts of the Market a few minutes later, Rebecca was surprised to see just how small it really was. She could actually see the _end_ of the main street, where the jungles were creeping in on the buildings closest to it, before they even passed the first building.

And between the first building on the street and the last one there at the end, there were dozens of colorful awnings and small wooden-supported stalls, all of them basically marred from sight by throngs of people – mostly men, but Rebecca could definitely see women scattered here and there.

"This is Mercado Negro?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. "The Black Market?"

"Don't be fooled," Billy said, grinning slyly. "This is just the set-up in case a lost tourist wanders by." He leaned in a little closer to Rebecca and began discreetly pointing things out to her. "The chickens, for instance – that's code for small arms. The jewelry stalls you see over there are drugs, and the fruit salesmen…they sell fake IDs and other papers."

"You're serious."

"Yep." Billy shrugged. "This _is_ the Mercado Negro, dollface. What, were you expecting them to have all of their illegal, dangerous contraband sitting out where anyone could see it? The code protects them…and sometimes provides them with a slightly more honest way of making a living."

"People buy chicken where they buy their guns?"

"Arms dealers have to eat, too."

"I get that, really. This place is just…" Rebecca looked out the window again. No one so much as batted an eye as they drove down the street. They only looked at the Jeep to see how far they had to move to get out of the way. "It's nothing like I would've expected. At all."

"That's about how I felt when I first moved here. Don't worry – you get used to it. After a while, it's not so bad." Billy pointed again, this time to a small, open-air bar on the corner of the main street and a back alley. "Vargas makes the best catfish I've ever had. I'll have to take you there while you're here."

Rebecca made a face, but tried not to let Billy see. She didn't mind fish. Sometimes she even liked it quite a bit. Catfish was the one exception. "Where does he get the catfish?"

"Outta the river – though it's not actually a river. It's more of a lake. But it's long and windy and we call it a river. It's only about a mile into the jungle."

"Oh."

"It's pretty nice," Billy told her as he turned right down another dirt track leading out and away from the Market. This one was barely wide enough for the Jeep to pass through. Jungle pushed in on one side while tall rows of sugarcane pushed in on the other. "Don't really wanna go swimming in it though."

"Piranhas?" Rebecca asked, tilting her head.

"Actually, no. Leeches."

Rebecca shuddered.

"Exactly."

* * *

About ten minutes down that last muddy road with jungle creeping in all around them, Billy and Rebecca reached another building. Rebecca had only one good phrase to use to describe it: nuclear fallout shelter.

"This is it?" she asked, looking from the concrete block to Billy and back again as she slid painfully out of the Jeep. "This is where you live?"

Billy, who was apparently not bothered in the slightest by the constant bumping and rocking of the Jeep along this road, only shrugged as he walked around to the back to get Rebecca's bags. "It looks worse from the outside. It's not so bad inside. Gotta lot of nice upgrades and renovations to it."

Thankfully, Billy was right. Inside was much nicer – newish wicker furniture, nice wood floors, air conditioning, a kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a nice tile backsplash…

It was also very dark.

"Not a big fan of natural sunlight, are you?"

"Can't afford it. Windows are like giant welcome-mats, if you know what I mean."

"The Alliance did _not_ pay for all of this."

"No. Half of it is from my savings. The other half… We'll call them gifts. Money I get from the Alliance goes into the viruses." He fell silent.

Rebecca waited.

"This virus," he said after a long pause. "It's really bad. I didn't want to mention it on the drive in, but…" He reached over to a side table and picked up a folder, passing it to her. She took it and started skimming the report inside.

_Highly infectious,_ she read. _Spreads on contact. Virus appears able to survive on surfaces for several hours, enhancing ability to spread.__ Incubation period varies slightly, with the shortest incubation period lasting approximately three hours. Longest approximately seven hours. Virus appears capable of infecting certain plants, animals, reptiles, and fish, and in a few choice individuals doesn't result in the typical rotted skin, zombie-like appearance, but instead gives them power and strength well beyond the records held for each species. Further research required to see if this mutation can be harnessed and reproduced at a higher rate._

_Additionally, one in every twenty infected appears completely asymptomatic. These asymptomatic carriers…_

Rebecca felt the blood slowly drain from her face. _Asymptomatic carriers._

She looked at Billy.

In all of her nightmares, in all of the terrible dreams she'd had of the damage the new strains of the T-Virus could do, none had included asymptomatic carriers. And there was nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – that she could think of right now that was worse than this.

If this virus got out…she tried to think. One in every twenty remained asymptomatic, despite being infected. If the virus dropped in even a small town, like the ones her grandparents lived in in Oklahoma, which had just over two hundred permanent residents…assuming everyone got infected, there would still be ten people who thought they weren't infected, and would show no signs of infection.

She looked back down at the report. A knot twisted in her stomach as she read. _These asymptomatic carriers appear uninfected, but can continue to spread the virus to everyone they come into contact with. The virus appears to respond to these individuals' immune systems in a wholly unique way, and is able to hide itself from most standard tests. _

The whole town could fall to ruin, and all anyone would ever think of the ones left standing was that they were lucky little bastards. They'd be free to go about their business, free to go elsewhere, carrying the infection with them…and it wouldn't even show up on the Alliance's test.

"Rebecca…" Billy said. His voice was quiet and raspy. "I only have one vial. And someone put a hell of a lot of money and time into researching it."

"Where did it come from?" Rebecca asked.

"I don't know," Billy replied, shaking his head. "I did some digging before you got here, but I haven't found anything yet."

"We have to find out where this virus came from. If there's more…" Rebecca forced herself to meet Billy's eyes, feeling a tremor of fear rattling through her bones.

"I know," he said.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Third verse, same as the first: this, too, is a totally revised, updated, and polished version of Chapter three. Like the other two chapters, the original can still be found on my livejournal if you're interested in seeing what two years did to my writing style and ability to carry and tell a story. I like to think it's an improvement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote it simply for fun (and because I really like these characters).

**Summary: **A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing.)

**Author's Note: **Many thousands of thanks to cannedcoelcanth for betaing this for me. Without her, I probably never would've gotten to posting again. 3

* * *

**Chapter 4:**

Billy stayed in bed for a lot longer than he usually did the morning three days after Rebecca had arrived. He stared up at the ceiling, hands hooked behind his head, absently following the swirls and patterns in the concrete above him as he thought. Every now and again his gaze would dart towards the bathroom – not because he needed to use it, but because on the other side of the bathroom's wall was his guest bedroom, where Rebecca was sleeping.

Billy rolled over onto his side, back to the bathroom, and drew a hand down his face. He'd guessed the Alliance would send her, and he'd been right. He'd been absolutely right. But knowing she was coming and actually having her here…well, no amount of mental preparation had fully prepared him for years had passed since they'd parted ways on that ridge, ten long and frustrating years, and now they were back together and things felt…

It was hard to put it into words.

When he'd first gotten on that train, he'd felt nothing but terror, a raw and instinctive terror like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd been barely able to suppress it, and his circumstances weren't helping matters any. The two MPs back at the truck were dead, and unless forensics looked closely and whatever cop was assigned to the case was thorough, he'd probably be nailed for the MP's deaths, too. Then he'd only just managed to get himself free of one cuff – one! – and that was after nearly breaking his hand. He had a gun, sure, but he had no way of knowing when it had been cleaned last and it wasn't like he had a lot of ammo anyway.

Then she'd come along, that barely-legal little princess, and even though logic told him he was better off without her, something else told him he needed her.

That feeling, the sense that he _needed_ her, hadn't left him since.

_The hell are you doing, Coen,_ Billy thought, pressing a fist to his forehead. _You don't have time for another trip down memory lane. Get your ass up. It's time to work._

Growling to himself, Billy kicked off the covers and got out of bed. He skipped right over the bathroom, walked right past the kitchen, and had barely grabbed a jacket off the rack before he was out the door. The ground outside was soaked through from last night's rain. There was no sense taking the Jeep; chances were he'd just get bogged down in the mud.

There was another row of dark clouds sitting on the horizon. Though there was very little wind at the moment, Billy knew the clouds were heading their way. They'd bring storms like the one from last night: a wild, raging thing indicative of the rainy season here on the Yucatán Peninsula.

The Market would shut down just before the rain hit. It always did. Billy would have to hurry up and get there if he wanted to talk to Vargas before the storm broke.

Like Mateo up in Cozumel, Vargas was one of Billy's information hounds. The old man had once been a member of the cartels himself, but had retired to the quieter life of a bartender and restaurateur after a long career running drugs. Few people knew that, though, and those who did kept it close. Vargas still had a dangerous edge to him, one no one dared trifle with.

The Luna Bar was empty when Billy arrived, as were the Market's muddy streets. Only a few stray dogs wandered through the alleys, looking for whatever food scraps might've survived the storm.

Though he did occasionally come here early, Billy was used to seeing these streets when they were packed with people and filled with the sounds of their chatter – in Spanish, Russian, Farsi, English, and about a dozen other languages. Now there were barely any signs of life at all, and the deep quiet was eerie. Craning his neck, he could just see the single, small window towards the back of the Bar, where the kitchen was. Soft light from inside bathed the yellow-brown brick a pale orange. Vargas was there, probably already cooking.

Billy slid onto one of the stools by the bar and rapped his knuckles on the counter. Vargas, though older, had both sharp hearing and a knack for sensing when people arrived at his bar, and Billy knew he'd be out in a few minutes. While he waited, he turned and looked up the Market streets again, eyeing the storm clouds that were definitely getting closer, trying to figure how long he had before the first drops of rain began to fall.

Billy heard a noise and turned back to the bar just as Vargas slipped out from behind the door to the kitchen.

"Guillermo," the old bartender said, grinning his nearly toothless grin. "Señor Rodriguez. I have not seen you here this early in a long time. What's on your mind?" Vargas' voice was soft and lightly accented, and his Spanish was easy to understand.

Billy took a deep breath, absently drumming his knuckles on the wood. "What can you tell me about Pig?"

"Pig?" Vargas shifted his weight, scratching at his stubbly chin with his callused fingers. Then he shrugged, throwing up his hands. "You've dealt with him almost as much as I have. Why don't you tell me?"

Billy looked away, back down the main road. He hadn't seen Pig in a few days – not since they'd made their deal, actually. With anyone else, that wouldn't have been unusual – dealers came and went from this place, often twice in a day depending on what they were after – but Pig was a creature of habit, and his habit was to stick around in the Market for at least a week before leaving again.

Billy kept thinking back to how their meeting had gone. How nervous Pig had been. How jumpy. None of that was completely out of character – Pig was paranoid on even the best of days – but something about his behavior had felt off that day and felt worse now. "Something's not right."

"What," Vargas said, "you think Pig might've gotten himself into something?" He laughed. "This is _Pig_. I shouldn't have to tell you how good he is."

He didn't. Pig was well known around the Market for being a shrewd, cunning, able businessman. He'd been dealing in bio-weapons since _long_ before the current, post-Umbrella boom – anthrax, smallpox, hell, even modified strains of the goddamned flu. There'd been an outbreak in Mexico City over the summer, and Billy'd be damned if Pig hadn't had some role in that. The guy knew how to make deals, get samples and turn a nice profit without making enemies – or mistakes. He'd been doing this for so long there was no fear any more, just the ease of familiarity. There was no one better, not in the whole wide world.

Billy knew all of that. Everyone on the Market did. "You're right," he said, then held up a hand and started ticking off everything that had been bothering him for the past few days: "He doesn't make bad deals, he doesn't undersell, and he _definitely_ doesn't skip town before his week's up. So where is he?"

"Yeah, you're right," Vargas agreed. Then he shook his head. "I can't say anything for sure."

"Nothing?" Billy shot Vargas a look. "Your little act hasn't gotten you anything?" Vagas's "little act" meant pretending he was a deaf-mute. Like his status as a former member of the cartels, only a very small handful of people in the world knew that Vargas could actually hear and speak, and all of them knew to keep that information to themselves, using it to their advantage whenever necessary – as Billy was doing now.

"No," Vargas said, relenting. "I haven't got anything. No one's stopped by looking for him. No one's asked about him. No one has stepped foot in this town who has no place here."

Billy made a face. He'd been afraid of that. "What about René de Silva?"

"de Silva? He's dead. That's all I know." Vargas held up his hands. "Guy probably had it coming. Never was one of the smarter dealers out there, and you know he liked to lie, cheat, and steal to get his hands on things. You think that's got something to do with Pig?"

"I don't know." Billy shook his head. "I don't have anything connecting the two, not without talking to Pig." He leaned forward on the table, thinking. Mateo had said something about the guys he'd seen, the ones from the trucks. That they'd been looking for something. René de Silva might've fallen into old habits stolen something, but his death and the guys with the trucks might've just been a coincidence.

"You know things have been changing out here," Vargas said, interrupting Billy's thoughts. "Can't deny that. There was that whole incident in – oh, hell, Africa somewhere. You know."

"Kijuju," Billy said.

"Yeah, there. I dunno what the hell went on down there, but ever since the Alliance has been stepping up its efforts to get all you dealers off the streets and all those virus samples into some big storehouse somewhere or something, whatever it is they…"

Billy rolled his eyes. "The Alliance is a joke," he said, his voice harsh. "Bound by the same stupid treaties and laws and regulations as the UN, slaves to the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium…" He shook his head. "The Alliance hasn't once _stopped_ an outbreak, just gone in and cleaned up the mess. Pig's not afraid of them, and he shouldn't be. They're too busy calling out big firms and patting themselves on the back when they take down CEOs to even realize that dissolving those companies just feeds the Market even more – and cuts down on all of the GPC's competition."

Vargas raised his eyebrows. "Well, aren't you just an expert on the subject."

Billy paused. He might've gone just a little bit too far there. He grit his teeth and thought, _Great job, Coen. You're a real genius, you know that? _He forced a shrug. "The Alliance has been on and off my tail for the past few years. They haven't caught me yet. So either I'm _very_ good – which we both know isn't true – or they're very bad." Billy leaned back as the first rumble of thunder echoed through the humid air. He had to get going, anyway.

"Thank you," he said, rising from the stool.

Vargas frowned, shook his head, and reached below the bar to grab a bunch of napkins. Glancing over his shoulder, Billy saw the a small handful of dealers heading towards the bar, probably looking for breakfast. Taking a pen out of his back pocket, Vargas hastily scribbled something on one of the napkins, pushing it towards Billy. Then, without giving Billy a chance to read the note and respond, the old bartender turned on his heel and disappeared back into his kitchen.

Billy looked at the napkin only after he had left the bar and started back down the muddy road towards the Bunker.

"If I were you," Vargas had written, "I'd worry less about Pig and more about yourself."

* * *

It was pouring by the time Billy got back home. It was a cold rain, with fat raindrops that stung every time they hit bare skin. Light periodically cracked across the sky, followed by thunder loud enough to leave ringing in his ears.

The shower was running when he got home – Billy could just hear it over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. Rebecca was awake. Kicking off his muddy shoes and hanging up his dripping coat, Billy quickly put a pot of coffee on and settled down at the kitchen table. He'd start breakfast when Rebecca was done with her shower.

Rebecca all but thrown herself at the virus the day she'd arrived, and had spent all of yesterday bent over the microscope, poring over the virus, studying small droplets of the sample under a microscope, jotting down notes and making plans for further tests, all in an effort to figure out what T-Loki did, how it did it, how it might be stopped. Billy's poor excuse for a lab was far from the most elaborate and was probably a far cry from the labs she worked in back in D.C., but it served.

For his part…well, Billy had spent the last two days feeling generally useless. Rebecca lost herself in the work easily and often, and he hated saying anything to disturb her. He prepared her meals because she was frequently too wrapped up in her work to even notice she hadn't eaten in the past eight hours. Billy was pretty sure that if he didn't feed her, Rebecca just wouldn't eat.

Beyond that, however, they spoke and interacted very little. Rebecca would mutter to herself periodically, chasing thoughts around on an old battered notebook she'd brought with her from D.C., but didn't say anything Billy could respond to. The few attempts at conversation he'd made had ended quickly, and the same awkward silence that had plagued them for most of the drive lingered on. Whatever wall was keeping them from being comfortable around each other showed no signs of falling anytime soon.

He hated it, but didn't really know what to do about it.

Billy heard Rebecca's door open and jerked his head around, watching as she all but staggered into the kitchen.

"Morning," he said, biting back a smile. Deep circles hung under her eyes, and though she'd showered and cleaned up for the day she still look disheveled and sleep deprived.

"Morning," she replied, rubbing at her eyes as though she had just rolled out of bed. "Is that coffee?"

"Yeah. Gimme a sec and I'll get you a cup." Billy rose, lightly slapping a palm on the glass table as an invitation for Rebecca to sit. She flopped heavily into a chair at the table while he poured her a cup of coffee. He set it on the table just in front of her, letting the strong smell kick her awake. "How late were you up?"

"Three?" Rebecca shrugged absently, taking the coffee with a grateful smile. She wrapped her slender fingers around the heavy mug. "Four, maybe. This virus is incredibly complex. I've never seen anything like it. It'll take me _weeks _to map out its DNA." She made a low noise and shook her head. "Whoever designed that virus built off a combination of the T-Virus and the Progenitor Virus. I'm still not sure _how,_ just looking at it." She took a hearty gulp of the coffee, swallowing it so fast Billy wasn't even sure she tasted it on the way down. Then she made a face and shuddered. "That's strong."

"Too strong?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Nah. Eads insists on having the strongest coffee in the office. I'm used to worse."

"Eads…?" Billy asked, his voice more tentative than he liked.

Rebecca, thankfully, responded as if she hadn't picked up on his hesitation. "Lab tech. Good guy. Weird habits." She took another gulp, made another face, and put the mug down. She rose, and made a vague gesture towards the basement. "I should get start—"

"Oh, no," Billy said, moving to stand between her and the way downstairs. "You need to eat first."

"You don't have to—" Rebecca began.

"But I'm going to," Billy replied, adding silently: _because you won't feed yourself if I don't._

Rebecca eyed him.

Billy folded his arms across his chest and stared right back. If she wanted a staring contest, she'd get a staring contest.

"Fine." Rebecca went back over to the table and sat back down.

Billy watched her just long enough to make sure she wasn't going to immediately spring away as soon as his back was turned, then set to getting some breakfast started for the both of them.

She still slipped into the basement while his back was turned. Sneak. Except she wasn't really, because Billy heard her go. He just didn't try to stop her this time.

He shook his head. He'd just finish the food and take some down to her, same as last night.

When he went down to the basement, food in hand, Rebecca was bent over a microscope, talking softly to herself again. Without a word Billy put the plate of food down on the small table behind her and stepped back, settling down in a chair in the corner to eat his own breakfast. He tried not to think about much as he ate, shoveling huge forkfuls of grease and fat and eggs and meat into his mouth. If there was one thing he liked about living down here, it was his easy access to fresh, good food. One of the older ladies around the Market was always willing to part with a few eggs in exchange for a few moments of company with "a nice young man", and Billy felt spending a few minutes of his life listening to old ladies talk about better days was easy enough to do.

Eventually, Rebecca reached over and grabbed the plate, pushing herself away from the microscope to eat. By then the food was cold, but that didn't seem to phase her.

"This is good," she said around a mouthful of eggs and peppers.

"Specialty around here. Vargas told me how to make it."

"No catfish in this, yeah?"

"No, not in that one. Catfish isn't much of a breakfast fish. That's just chorizo, eggs, cheese, and peppers."

"S'good," Rebecca said again. "Thanks."

"No problem. You need anything else?" Billy asked. "I can get whatever you need."

"Well..." Rebecca trailed off, casting a quick glance over at the microscope. "I could use...a few things. I dunno how easy they'd be to get, though."

"I can get you just about anything, sweetheart, just say the word."

"Petri dishes? More slides for the microscope, uh…" she glanced over at the table she was using. It was pretty bare.

"I think I can get those. Might take a few days to get, though."

Rebecca bit her lip. "Any way we could get it sooner?"

Billy shook his head.

"You can't go out after it?"

"I could, sure. But I'm not okay with leaving you here all by yourself. Not for that long."

"You left me here alone just this morning!"

"That was different," Billy fired back. Then, before she could answer, he leaned back against the ladder, folded his arms across his chest, and added, "Why're you so eager to kick me out of the house all of a sudden?" he asked, adding a slight drawl to his voice. "Gotta make a private call to your boyfriend?"

Rebecca seemed to swell at that. She inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing, and drew herself up to her full height, like she was fixing to tear Billy a new one. Only...she deflated, almost as quickly as she'd gotten angry. "No," she said. "I don't have one to call."

Billy felt his heart jump up into his throat. No boyfriend? Really?

Over the past ten years, he'd wondered on and off what might happen if he and Rebecca reunited. There'd been…something between them by the time they parted ways, though he'd never quite figured out how to describe it. He figured they'd been comrades, friends, and he knew he respected her as much as he respected any of the other men who had fought – and sometimes died – alongside him. But there'd been something more, as well. And whatever it was, it had made him incredibly nervous about asking her what had been happening in her life, for fear that he might find himself suddenly disappointed by her answer.

But that was the wall. He knew it. That question was the one he'd been too worried to ask, too afraid of what the answer might've been to face: where was she in her life? Did he – could he – have some place in it? What place? For how long?

Billy had to bite back an overjoyed grin. It wasn't appropriate. But he had his answer and he hoped, now, that the walls would come down.

* * *

The storms died out again by that evening. Forecast was still calling for more rain over the next few days, and the local meteorologists were tracking a hurricane making its up in from the Atlantic. Though the hurricane wasn't due to make landfall over the peninsula, they were still going to get hammered with more rain and higher winds than Billy wanted to deal with right now.

_Bad timing_, Billy thought, pulling open the refrigerator door and trying to figure out what to make for dinner. Whatever he settled on, he planned on dragging Rebecca out of the basement for it. She needed a break.

Billy felt his stomach twist some. He'd been hoping – foolish as it was – to get a few days' break, at least long enough that the Market would reopen and he could see if Pig were still around somewhere. His absence, which violated every last habit and idiosyncrasy Pig had, weighed on Billy more and more with every passing hour.

He kept thinking that René de Silva and Pig had to be connected. He couldn't prove anything, but de Silva's death had been as violent and gruesome as any he'd seen out here, and it might just have been enough to spook Pig.

Billy sighed heavily, grabbing some chicken and hoping Rebecca would be okay with paella.

She emerged from the basement as he was cooking.

"Smells good!" she said, offering him a warm, excited smile.

"Hope it tastes good, too," Billy said, watching as she flopped down on the couch and opened her laptop. He listened to the steady, rhythmic ticking of her fingers over the keys as he turned back to the stove and kept working.

"Billy?" Rebecca suddenly called from the living room.

"What is it?"

"I…I think you need to see this." Her voice was clipped.

Running his hands under some water and wiping them dry, Billy circled around the couch he could see the screen. He had expected to see some email from Graves or one of her friends on the B.S.A.A., or maybe some shots of the virus' cells or something…

What he saw instead was an article on a popular news website.

About him. About _his case_. With his picture nestled right next to the text.

Billy felt all the warmth drain out of him. His stomach twisted itself up into tight, angry knots, and he swallowed. _Sonofabitch._

"Did you know about this?" Rebecca asked, looking up at him.

Billy clenched his teeth, pushing a hand through his hair. "Sort of," he finally admitted, closing his eyes and trying desperately to wish that article away.

"'Sort of?'"

Billy growled in frustration, the sound rumbling deep in the back of his throat. "Graves called me a few days ago. Mentioned that one of the other guys from…from my old unit had killed himself – and left a note. It was enough to turn a few heads." He growled again, an angry fire building in his chest.

"But… Why didn't you mention it?" Rebecca asked, climbing out of the chair.

Billy glanced back at the screen. "Because I don't know how I feel about it."

"It's good news!" she replied, her voice earnest.

"Is it?" Billy retorted, spinning to face her, his hands balling into fists. "How is it good news? I've worked with the cartels, Rebecca. I've been in close contact with men who have killed just to keep their identities secret! If they find out that that—" he jabbed a finger at the computer, where a ten-year-old photo of him in full Marine Corps regalia was displayed in his resolution on the screen "—is me, that I was a _Marine_, what do you think they're going to do? They'll think I'm working with the DEA. They'll come after me, Rebecca. They'll hunt me down and _they'll kill me_."

"That means you can come home!"

Billy shook his head furiously. "Billy Coen is a dead man as far as the United States is concerned. Innocent or not, he died in July 1998, alone and on the run from a bunch of goddamned zombies. What they're doing now – it's bullshit. It's a bunch of guys finally deciding that they're all close enough to death's door that no one is going to have the heart to put them through the hell they put me through. There's only one guy left. Donovan. They're not gonna charge him. He wasn't…" Billy shook his head again. "Did you know Welles is dead? My CO, the guy who ordered the whole massacre? Yeah. Killed in action in Afghanistan three years ago. Got a medal for it. The one guy who _deserves_ everything that I got and then some, and he's dead!"

Billy began to pace, anger roiling in his gut. He'd always tried to do good with his life. Always. He joined the Marines to help people. He picked up viruses off the market and handed them over to the BSAA to stop people from having to go through what he'd been through. And every time he thought that, for once in his life, things might work out, something happened.

"This whole thing," he said, "isn't about clearing my name. It's about lining the pockets of anyone who can claim tangential involvement. It's just about letting the new brass sleep well at night, while I get _nothing._ Nothing but another ruined life. I already can't be a Marine anymore. Now I won't be able to be a dealer anymore either.

"I'm running out of things I'm _good_ at, Rebecca. And it was a short list to begin with."

Mentally spent, Billy trailed off. His hands were balled up so tightly he could feel his nails digging deep into his palms and there was a tight knot in his chest and stomach.

He couldn't look at Rebecca. But suddenly he heard her move, felt her step in beside him, and the next thing he knew she had wrapped her arms around his neck.

"You're a _hero_, Billy Coen," she said, her voice thick. "I know it, you know it, Graves knows it. And it's about fucking time _America_ knew it."

Startled, Billy stood frozen. He just let Rebecca cling to him, pressing her face into his collarbone. Then he relaxed, tilted his head so his cheek lay against her hair, and wrapped his arms around her back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry." He tightened his grip on her, holding her as close to him as he could. "I'm sorry."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Another revised chapter! The original version of this one is also at my livejournal account. Did a lot of paring to this chapter and tweaked the timeline a bit, now that I've got a better sense of how I need to pace it. Otherwise...well, I tried to keep as much as the original chapter intact as I could. This one was one of the better ones, even unrevised.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote it simply for fun (and because I really like these characters).

**Summary: **A new variation on the T-Virus threatens the world in a way no other strain has, prompting the BSAA to send one of their own to South America to investigate. Billy/Rebecca Reunion, Post RE5.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing.)

**Author's Note: **Many thousands of thanks to cannedcoelcanth for betaing this for me. Without her, I probably never would've gotten to posting again. 3

* * *

**Chapter 5: **

Turning her fork over in her hand, Rebecca stabbed at – and missed – a piece of sausage. The silence hanging over the bunker was so deep she could hear the muted _tink_ of her fork hitting the ceramic plate.

She glanced up at Billy. His head was low, like hers, and he seemed deeply invested in his own plate.

Rebecca dropped her gaze. She and Billy hadn't spoken since last night. Not a single word. Billy had made them breakfast in silence, dished it up in silence, and now they were both eating in the same heavy, awkward _silence_ she thought they'd finally gotten past days ago. Every now and again she thought she felt Billy's eyes on her or thought she heard him make some noise, but nothing came of it. Either she was imagining things or the words weren't coming to him any better or faster than they were coming to her.

_This sucks_, she thought_. This really sucks_.

She didn't know what to say, what she _could_ say, to make things better. She'd been up half the night scouring the internet for all of the news she could find relating to Billy's case, trying to figure out just how far and how fast the story was hadn't found much – all but a scant few of the articles she'd uncovered were nothing more than short blurbs, five hundred words or less.

Rebecca shoveled another bite of eggs into her mouth. She understood Billy's concern. She understood his pain, his frustration. He'd had his whole life taken away from him the first time, when he was convicted, and now that same case was taking it away from him all over again.

Rebecca bit her lip. Her stomach clenched. Secretly, _selfishly,_ she was glad for all of this, though even _thinking_ that made her feel like a wretched excuse for a human being. Billy deserved his freedom. He deserved an apology and the chance to actually settle down in a profession that didn't require risking his life on a daily basis. He deserved the chance to live the life he'd always dreamed of living, without the fear of being discovered and killed hanging over his head. With his name cleared, he could come back to D.C. with her and start over again. The Alliance could use him, take him on as a consultant. He'd be able to use his talents, his skills, without risking his life all over again.

Presently Billy got up from the table, gathered up his plate and glass and silverware, and started working on the dishes. Rebecca kept eating, but picked up her pace. She wanted to finish her breakfast before Billy was done with the dishes. She could take that opening – his distraction, his back turned – to disappear into the basement.

_Coward_, she thought. She hadn't been afraid to challenge or speak to Billy in the training facility. What was holding her back now?

She stabbed at the last bit off eggs on her plate. The fork was halfway to her mouth when something flashed behind her. The lighting in the bunker changed.

Rebecca froze, the fork stuck hovering halfway to her mouth. She waited, tensed. Something about the shift in light… it wasn't right. There. There it was again. Behind her, by the windows. Rebecca started to turn, to look, because there wasn't any wind outside and even if there had been there weren't any trees along that side of the bunker…

Then the lights above the table went out. _Cut_ out.

Blood rushed to Rebecca's head and pounded through her ears. Her fingers tingled as the feeling of _wrongness_ intensified, building in her chest, her stomach, her gut. She let her fork drop back onto her plate. Just inside her peripheral vision she saw Billy stiffen and whip around, looking at something behind her.

"Rebecca, get down!"

_Crack!_

She was on the floor in an instant. _Gunshot_, her brain supplied quickly as she scrambled over to the couch, to cover. _Someone is shooting at us. _Her heart drumming in her ears, Rebecca peered around the side of the couch.

One of the windows had cracked.

One of the _tempered, bullet-proof, reinforced_ _windows_ had _cracked_.

_Crack! _Rebecca ducked back down behind the couch, covering her head she peered around the couch again, she saw that another window blossomed with the same spider web of fractures as the first.

Rebecca swore and ducked back behind the couch, looking across the kitchen for Billy. He'd taken cover behind the island – and he had a gun.

Their eyes met and he reached back behind him and pulled out another gun, holding it up so she could see. For a brief second Rebecca wondered where he'd pulled it from – somewhere in the island, perhaps? – then he put the gun on the floor and slid it over to her. It skidded across the hardwood and stopped right within her reach. Rebecca snatched it up and turned the safety off.

The gun was nothing more than a small handgun – not unlike the handgun she'd carried with her in the STARS. It felt familiar, and she liked that.

_Crack!_

She looked back at Billy. He met her eyes again and gestured for them both to make a run for the hallway. Rebecca nodded. Theycouldn't stay here. No matter how strong the bunker was, it couldn't hold up against this kind of onslaught – not forever. The windows, the door, the walls themselves…eventually something would give, and then it would be over.

_Crack! Crack! Ratatatatat!_

Rebecca swore. The gunfire was coming more erratically now, and faster. More people, more guns…

_What, do they have an army out there?_ That couldn't be true. Could it? She looked at Billy again, hoping he'd figured out more than she had so far. But his face was in shadow, his expression unreadable. He only held up three fingers, gestured to the hall, then lowered one. A countdown. Rebecca tensed and rose into a crouch. The second Billy's final finger fell she was off, scrambling madly for the hallway, dragging herself up off her hands and knees as she moved. Billy wasn't far behind.

"The basement!" he said, his hand falling on her back and lightly pushing her forward. "Go! Get the virus!"

Rebecca fairly flew down the ladder and over to her worktable. She grabbed up her notes and the T-Loki report, then scrambled under the table for the bag she discarded under there days ago. With the papers filed away, she loaded the virus in the silver case, and as soon as the case clicked closed she stood. She slung her bag over her shoulder and quickly took stock of the rest of the room, looking for anything she might've missed.

The cold storage was empty now that she had the virus packed away. She'd disposed of most of her cultures last night, and the ones she had left hadn't started to grow yet. Their attackers could take them if they wanted – she hadn't uncovered much of anything yet, and what little she had was already outlined in the T-Loki report she had in her bag. All of her notes and the reports Billy had gotten from Pig were in her bag.

She took a deep breath. Nothing here was vital. She could leave it all behind and no one could use it or get anything out of it.

The trapdoor burst open and Rebecca jumped, whirling around. But it was only Billy. He climbed down the ladder just far enough to close and lock the trapdoor behind them, then jumped to the ground.

"You ready?"

Rebecca nodded. In the quick silence that followed, she could just hear the distant _boom_ of something far, far heavier than a bullet crack into the bunker's concrete walls. She and Billy both cast a worried look back towards the trapdoor.

"We'd better get going," Billy said. His voice was clipped.

"Right," Rebecca agreed.

Billy led her over to a locked storage closet over in a corner. It was one of those do-it-yourself cabinets, and the doors creaked loudly when Billy pulled them open. Rebecca almost – _almost_ – made a crack about his handy-man skills, but stopped when she saw that the closet was empty…save a gaping hole in the back wall. A tunnel.

_This is his escape plan?_ Rebecca hadn't ever been much of a fan of closed, dark spaces. But after everything she went through in the training facility, the forest, and the mansion in the Arklay mountains, she hated them even more.

"This way," Billy said. "After you."

Rebecca quickly swallowed back her fears and stepped into the cabinet. The tunnel beyond was cool and very, very dark. Rebecca put a hand on the wall for guidance as she slipped inside.

Behind her, Billy grabbed something off a shelf, popped the lid, hit something, and tossed what sounded like a canister out into the basement.

"What was that?"

"Sterilization canister." Billy reached back onto the shelf and grabbed a couple of flashlights. He handed one off to her, then switched his on.

"A _what?_"

"A sterilization canister." Billy pulled the closet door closed, plunging them into even deeper darkness. "Look, most of the guys down here don't have the funding or the means to keep up a completely sterile lab, like the one you've got up in DC. _My_ digs are better than most of the places out here on the market, and it's _still_ pretty shitty. Those canisters are a quick and easy way to keep your workspace clean. And if you've been handling the T-Virus…well." He let the implication speak for itself, then gently pushed past her and started off down the tunnel. The narrow beam of light from his flashlight bobbed up and down on the compacted dirt walls.

Rebecca lurched forward, breaking into a half-jog to make up for Billy's head start and longer legs. "But…_we_ don't have anything like that! Where did it come from?"

"Black market innovation, sweetheart," Billy said over his shoulder. "What, you the Alliance is the only group with tricks up its sleeves?" He snorted. "C'mon, we gotta keep moving."

Rebecca made a harsh noise in the back of her throat – _that_ wasn't an answer at all – but kept moving. She had to be careful even with her flashlight lighting the path. Every sound seemed distant here, muted by the earthen tunnel instead of amplified by it. After a point, all Rebecca could hear was the soft swishing of their clothing and the sounds of their breathing and the small rattle of batteries in her flashlight as they jostled with her every step.

She didn't know how long the tunnel was or even how long they'd been walking. Her fear, though slowly fading, had distorted her sense of time so much she couldn't tell if minutes had passed – or if hours had.

All she could do was keep moving.

* * *

After a while – Rebecca wasn't sure how long, as her sense of time still felt distorted – Billy slowed, then stopped.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

Rebecca listened. Were those…voices? Yes. Distant, muffled voices, but voices nonetheless.

"Where are they coming from?"

"They're outside. Milling around one of the exits, I think. We'll have to find which one." Billy motioned for her to wait where she was while he crept forward. She watched him disappear into the darkness as he ducked down a few branching pathways.

"They're up there," Billy said, emerging back out of one of the other tunnels.

"What do we do?" Rebecca asked.

"Easy. We leave through another door." Billy motioned for Rebecca to follow him and led her toward another branch, this one a few dozen feet past the first one. She spotted one other branching tunnel as they walked.

"How many of those branches are there?" she asked.

"A few," Billy said. "Some of them are dummies – end in a trap or a dead end. Only a few of them are actual exits." He stopped at the end of the new branching tunnel. As far as Rebecca could tell this one was a dead end. But then Billy pointed up, and there, designed to mimic the look of the rock around them, was a hatch. Billy could reach it if he jumped, but Rebecca would need a bit of a boost – which Billy quickly provided, moving what she _thought_ was a rock away from the wall and placing it under the hatch.

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" she marveled.

Billy offered her a half smile. "Almost everything. Now, when we get out of here, I want you to run. Stay quiet and move as fast as you can. Don't stop."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right behind you."

Rebecca nodded. Okay. She could do that. Billy reached over her shoulder, carefully pushing open the small hatch hiding the tunnel's exit from the outside world. Light streamed in, hurting Rebecca's eyes. She felt Billy's hand fall against the small of her back and push, guiding her up and into the jungle.

Tropical birds burst from the trees, squawking and keening. Everything was green or some shade of green but the flowers, the sky, and the muddy earth beneath her feet. And the humidity! The humidity was overpowering. In seconds every bare patch of her skin felt sticky and damp, and breathing was a battle all on its own. Every breath she took felt wet and hot, like trying to breathe steam through a sponge.

Rebecca took one quick look around. One quick look. As she twisted her head around to the left, her gaze panning the jungle just north of her, she met the dark eyes of a man, dressed in black, a large rifle in his massive hands.

For a split second she and the man only stared at each other. Then he shouted something to his companions – yes, there were more people over there – and raised his rifle. The shot burst into a tree just a little to her left, splitting bark and leaving her ears ringing.

After that she didn't think. She ran – blindly, her legs pumping, her heart racing. At some point she felt Billy fall in just behind her and calmed slightly. She wasn't alone. All of this all over again, and she wasn't alone. She had him. They were together.

And, she thought, she would fight to keep it that way.

They ran until they reached the river. The shouting and gunshots had faded in and out as they ran, and by the time they reached the high, rushing river Rebecca couldn't hear them at all anymore. Maybe they'd finally lost their pursuers.

She stood, panting heavily, on the banks of the river. Water lapped at the rocks by her feet. Sweat poured down her face and back. She wanted to rest, wanted to take a few minutes to catch her breath, at least…

"Into the water." Billy's voice was terse. "Go."

"But..." Rebecca cast a wary look at the water. She guessed it was higher than normal, but the area around the river was used to flooding like this annually. The shoreline was about a dozen feet back from where it was in the dry season, but otherwise it looked like a normal river.

"Don't worry about the leeches!" Billy said. "We haven't got time. Go!"

Gritting her teeth, Rebecca plunged into the water. The current tugged at her legs, pulling the loose boot cut of her jeans downriver. She went in till the water was up past her calves, then turned to Billy.

"Upriver or down?"

"Down," Billy replied. "Let's put as much distance between them and us as we can."

Rebecca turned back and started sloshing downriver. Though progress was easier going downriver instead of up, they were still moving more slowly than they would on land. The river bottom was mostly oversaturated mud that tugged and pulled on Rebecca's feet as she walked. She had to focus on her steps so she didn't end up falling.

Because of this, she was a bit slow in picking up the sound. When she finally registered it, she stopped, straining her ears in an effort to figure out just what she was hearing. It was some kind of…thrumming noise. Like a motor. A helicopter? No, the sound kept cutting out and restarting again. A boat? That made more sense. The sound could be an outboard motor, starting and stopping at intervals. Rebecca turned and looked up and down the river, trying to peg where the sound was coming from – in front of them, or somewhere behind them.

_What if their pursuers had gotten a boat? _

Rebecca's blood turned to ice in her veins. Her fingers began to prickle. It was all over if they had a boat. The riverbank here was very steep. There'd be no getting both her and Billy back into the jungle before the boat overtook them.

But they couldn't just stand there in open water, either – a conclusion Billy seemed to have reached far faster than Rebecca did. While she was still running over their options he lurched forward, grabbed her by the arm, and began half-shoving, half-pulling her towards the riverbank. Once there he pushed her – gently, but with purpose – into the mud before using his own body to shield her as best he could.

"Stay still and quiet," Billy said, though he really didn't need to. Rebecca hadn't gotten this far in her life after Umbrella without knowing how to hide. She held her breath, waiting, ignoring the way the silver case with the virus was digging into her left side. She couldn't adjust without risking their cover.

Billy was in a better position than she was to keep an eye on the oncoming boat, so Rebecca watched his face. His expression changed quickly from fear to curiosity to relief, and then he grinned and stepped away from her.

"It's Vargas!" he said, happier than he'd seemed all morning. He reached out a hand to her and pulled her onto her feet before turning to the boat. "Vargas!" Billy called, waving.

Vargas didn't return the greeting. He cut the motor and let the boat drift slowly downriver as he motioned frantically for them to head his way. Even from where they were Rebecca could see that Vargas's clothes were singed and streaked with soot, like he'd escaped a fire. "Get in," he called, his voice a harsh rasp. "Get in, you fools."

Billy beat Rebecca to the boat by a few feet and hauled himself in while Vargas reached for her. As soon as she got close he gripped the back of her shirt with his thin, bony hands and pulled. The old man was stronger than he looked, and without much effort he managed to drag Rebecca – case, bag, and all – into the boat.

There she collapsed, falling onto her knees, panting heavily in an effort to catch her breath. The humidity made her feel like she was sucking in every breath through a warm, wet sponge.

Vargas checked to make sure she was okay, then rounded on Billy. He grabbed Billy's shoulder tightly in one bony hand and shoved him back, hissing and spitting and swearing. "I thought they might've gotten to you before I did," he said, his shaking voice caught somewhere between anger and relief. "You lucky son of a bitch."

"What happened?" Billy asked.

"Pig's dead," Vargas replied. "They got to him last night. Left him hanging on the clothesline in the center of town." He shook his head, then stalked off and started working on the boat.

Pig was dead? Rebecca felt her heart sink, then start racing again. So their pursuers _were_ after the virus. Pig's death confirmed it. She pulled the silver case close to her chest, tightening her grip on it. The virus dealers had attacked the bunker at nine. How long had they been outside? A few hours? All night? Had they come to the bunker just after killing Pig, or had they waited?

They went upriver quite a ways before Vargas cut the motor again, guiding the boat towards a small dock half hidden by hanging trees and clumps of debris. Beyond it, mostly hidden by the trees, was a small, abandoned fishing village.

The three of them disembarked. Billy went first and took Rebecca's bags from her before helping her out of the boat. Vargas helped himself, stepping from the boat to the dock with the ease of practice. Rebecca guessed this was where his famous catfish came from, and she suddenly regretted not having ever sampled some.

After they were safely on the dock, Vargas handed Billy a set of keys.** "**Take my truck," he said, stepping back. "They won't expect you to have it."

Billy looked from the keys to Vargas and back again. "I can't take that."

"You will. You have to. You need to get out of here. Both of you." Vargas stepped back to the boat and put his hands on its side, like he was going to hop back inside.

"Your old friends are really going to want you dead now, Billy Coen."

"Shit," Billy hissed, his face going white. "It's everywhere, isn't it?"

Vargas's expression was grim. "I told you you needed to worry about yourself. Now _go._"

"Wait," Rebecca said. "What about you?" Vargas had done so much for them. Leaving him behind just seemed…unfair.

Vargas smiled a gap-toothed smile. "I've been through worse. Now _go._ I'd like to be in Quintana Roo before tomorrow, and you're just slowing me down." Vargas swung himself back into the boat. He pulled the ropes tying the boat to the dock back inside, then let the current pull him downstream as he worked the motor again. Within a few minutes he had started back downriver. Billy and Rebecca both watched him go. He never looked back.

"Where do you think he's going?" she wondered.

Billy made a noise – something like a halted laugh. "Somewhere. Anywhere. Guy's been around longer than most of us have been alive. If anyone in the world knows where to go after something like this, I'll bet everything I still own that Vargas is that man."

The truck, which they found halfway between the road and the abandoned fishing village,was covered in a layer of mud almost as thick as the one on Billy's Jeep.

"We'll have to ditch it before we reach the ferry," Billy said, climbing into the back of the cab. It was a tight fit, but Billy managed.

As they drove, they passed by the Market. Or what was left of it, anyway. Even from where they were, a good mile and a half away, Rebecca could see orange flames licking at the sky, and she imagined the swirling clouds of black smoke could be seen for long miles all around.

"Billy," Rebecca said. "Look."

Billy dragged himself across the floor of the battered truck and lifted himself just high enough that he could see out the window. "They burned it all."

"Looks that way." She twisted around in the truck just long enough to look at Billy. His gaze was fixed on the plume of smoke, and Rebecca could only guess what he was thinking.

Billy turned her down another road, and soon even the dark plume of smoke faded into the distance. When it had, Rebecca allowed herself to relax, just a little bit. There were no other cars on this road, not as far as she could see in any direction.

They were safe.

For now.

* * *

Rebecca called Graves as soon as her phone found a decent signal. Around the chattering of her teeth and the obscenely loud rattling of the truck's cab as Billy continued to guide her down roads way, way less traveled by, she managed to convey to Graves that their entire situation had gone south on them and – like it or not – they needed backup.

"I was afraid of that," Graves said. "When I didn't hear from you this morning…I'll let Agent Redfield know. He and his team should be able to catch the next flight down to Cozumel."

"Chris has a _team_ already?"

Graves sighed wearily. "Agent Redfield wasn't too happy to hear that I sent you down there without any backup. He's put together a team to have on standby in case you need further support. They're in Ft. Lauderdale now – all I have to do is give them the go-ahead."

Rebecca bristled at the idea that Chris thought she couldn't handle herself alone out here. Field agent or not, she hadn't exactly _forgotten_ her STARS training. But Chris's heart was in the right place, and she knew it. He hadn't meant the extra preparations as an insult to her abilities.

"We also have a hotel booked, if you're comfortable staying in Cozumel for a few days."

"A hotel?" Rebecca asked.

"Yes. It's the Hotel Aguilar, by the airport. If you get there today, use the names Elizabeth and Alan Stockton to check in."

"If we get there _today?_"

"It's an old CIA trick," Billy said, speaking up from the back. "You need rooms but aren't sure what day you're going to arrive? Book a room for two days, then another room for two days after that. Use different names for each room. It'll help you cover your tracks." He pulled himself into an awkward sitting position, still trying to keep his head below the window line. "Turn right up there."

"Billy's right," Graves said, drawing Rebecca back into the other important conversation she was involved in. "It's an old CIA trick. If you get up there tomorrow, go by James Gleeson and Alison Murray. There will be two rooms for you then."

"James Gleeson and Alison Murray," Rebecca repeated. "Got it."

There the conversation died. Rebecca had little else to say, and Billy had fallen silent again.

"Be safe," Graves said, breaking the silence by winding down their conversation. "Call if anything happens. And Rebecca? Tell Billy I'm sorry, but I couldn't keep his case out of the media for any longer."

Rebecca glanced at Billy, unsure whether he could hear Graves' voice over the speaker or not. His expression was impassive, his gaze locked somewhere down the road before them.

"Will do, sir," Rebecca said. She hung up the phone and dropped it onto her lap. It nearly flew off her lap and onto the floor when she hit an unseen pothole. "_How_ far to Cozumel, yet?"

"A few more hours. We'll make it today." Billy sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "The turn to the highway is coming up soon. There. Turn left there." Billy pointed over her shoulder, indicating a barely marked turnoff onto a gravel road. "Then it's a straight shot up to Playa del Carmen. We'll catch the ferry back to Cozumel there."

"Oh, _good_," Rebecca said, and meant it.

After that, they fell quiet again. Rebecca kept her eyes on the long, straight road as it turned from gravel to cracked pavement to newer, smooth asphalt and watched a towering thunderhead charge across the sky before her.

When they finally reached Playa del Carmen, they had a small debate over whether to take Vargas's truck across on the ferry or leave it behind. Billy wanted to ditch the truck, but Rebecca wanted to keep it with them at least until they crossed to the island. They could dump it there for all she cared; she just felt it was best to have it with them until then. Billy needed all the cover and protection they could get.

In the end, she won. The truck would go with them into Cozumel. They could dump it there.

Somewhere.

She didn't leave the truck while they rode the ferry. Instead she closed her eyes and tried, again, to make a plan. Where would they go next? What would they do?

She didn't have many ideas, and the few she had she shot down. They really had no choice but to get to Cozumel, grab a hotel, barricade the door, and wait for Chris and his team to arrive. Maybe _they'd_ have some better ideas.

While she was spinning her wheels and getting nowhere, Billy had taken a knife to his hair.Rebecca watched him in the rearview mirror, wondering if she should say something lock after lock of his dark hair came away in his hands, sliced clean through with the knife. But she didn't, and soon enough Billy was done.

The transformative effect was pretty impressive. His new haircut looked a little like the popular style back home, and the cut alone made him look years younger. If he changed up a few more things about his appearance, he'd be much harder to find.

Dropping the last lock of hair onto the floor, Billy pushed his hand through his hair. He must've felt Rebecca staring, because he asked, "Is it that bad?"

"No," Rebecca replied. "You just look different. Younger."

"Think I might throw them off the trail?"

"For a little while." She paused, her gaze falling on the worn cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. "Losing the shirt might help."

Billy lifted his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Rebecca stared at him for a second, then realized what she'd said. She felt the blood rush to her face and quickly clarified, "I mean for one with short sleeves."

"I know what you meant." Billy smiled and tugged experimentally at his sleeves, then pushed them up over his arms as far as they would go. The swirling black lines of his tattoo were still there, still easy to see.

"Has anyone down here ever seen it?" Rebecca asked.

"No. I don't think so. But…" He pushed the sleeves back down. "I've had this tattoo since I was eighteen. There might be some photos of it drifting around online."

Rebecca winced. Right. His case. The _other_ roadblock they were facing. "We'll think of something," she said, trying to be reassuring. "I promise."

She wanted to say more, but the ferry had docked a few minutes back and the lines of cars and trucks and people vying to get back on dry land were beginning to move, and Rebecca – trapped somewhere in the middle of the ferry – had little choice but to go with the flow.

* * *

They dumped the truck near the jungle a few miles outside of town, but only after running the battered thing through the car wash first. Underneath all that caked on mud was a chipping layer of dark blue paint, and both Billy and Rebecca agreed that without the layers of mud it was a lot harder for their followers to identify the truck as theirs.

Before they'd run the car through the wash, they'd sorted through some of the stuff still left in the bed. Most of it was fishing equipment – they'd even left some of the poles and tackle and other gear at the fishing village, just in case Vargas ever thought to come back for it. They'd left a few blankets and some stray gear, and Billy went through it now, just in case there might be anything in there identifying the truck as Vargas's.

He found a single black duffel bag hidden under a pile of blankets. If he opened it Rebecca didn't see, but either way he determined that it was going with them back to the hotel, then climbed out of the truck and pried off the license plate.

They buried it a few dozen yards into the jungle, then began the three-mile hike back into the city. A couple of tourists out for a day hike stopped and offered them a ride which they accepted. Walking left them too open.

Once back in town, they checked into the hotel using the names Graves had provided, then dragged what few possessions they still had upstairs with them. Rebecca shifted the virus case from one hand to the other in the elevator, clutching it so tightly her knuckles were white. This city of strangers was no safer than the Market had been, no matter how anonymous they managed to be here. If the virus dealers were unopposed to burning the Market to the ground – to do what, send a _message_ to Billy? – then she doubted they'd have any qualms about doing the very same to Cozumel.

Though the heads at the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium liked to tell the public that things had really gotten better after Umbrella's fall, the truth was that things were only getting worse. The virus was everywhere now, or close to it. The Alliance only _appeared_ to be on top of things. The truth was, they were almost floundering. Information – reports, leads, data, research, you name it – came at them from virtually every direction, and the Alliance lacked the manpower, the funding, and the authority to deal with everything in a timely manner.

Kijuju, for instance, should never have turned into a full-scale outbreak. The Alliance should have been sent in far sooner, only bureaucratic red tape, a supposed "lack" of information, and the declining political climate in Kijuju had stonewalled the Alliance to such a degree that it took more than eighteen months to get even the first African branch agents into the area – and that was even after they'd had hard evidence that Jill was possibly being held in the area. Jill! One of the founding members of the Alliance!

After that, the rest was history. The Alliance cleaned up the mess – killing infected, shutting down production plants and research facilities, burning decimated villages to the ground. The scant survivors, all refugees now, were granted asylum in Luapula. Samples were taken from the soil, water, flora, and fauna and then all of those were shipped off to the BSAA headquarters in DC, where Rebecca had been put in charge of testing all of them. Three months in and she'd still barely put a dent in all those samples, meaning a great swath of Kijuju was still considered a biohazardous zone and was heavily policed and monitored by BSAA agents. She had no idea how long it would take before the zone was considered decontaminated and whatever survivors wanted to could even return home.

It was a bad situation, and things were even worse here. Here, the virus was being produced and sold at an alarming rate. T-Loki, though far and away one of the worst new strains to emerge in the aftermath of Umbrella's fall, was only the latest in a long string of new strains to come out of parts of Central and South America. But until her mission, this mission, no one from the Alliance had really been allowed to go and look into who might be producing these viruses – and where.

If…if they could find the lab that produced T-Loki and shut it down, that would be progress. Maybe not a death blow – maybe not even a _scratch_ – but it would be progress.

When they reached the right room, Billy unlocked the door and pushed his way inside. The room was light – white walls, mostly white bedding, light oak and white furniture – and felt just like a beach resort.

_Well, you are in Cozumel,_ Rebecca reminded herself. _It is a beach town. And you could do worse._ There was a bed, after all, and a dresser and a shower and a small balcony with a view of the beach and the blue, blue water stretching out across the horizon.

While she took stock of the room, Billy dropped onto the edge of the bed. He looked…defeated. Rebecca sat beside him, not sure what to say or do. _Again_. Uncertainty was rapidly becoming her default state of being.

_He lost everything_, she reminded herself, even if that didn't really help clue her in to something good to say. She could sit with him, though, and let him know that she was here to help in any way she could.

"I'm sorry," Billy said at last.

Rebecca jerked, taken aback by this. "What? What're _you_ apologizing for?"

"For getting you involved."

Rebecca frowned and shook her head vigorously. "That wasn't your fault. You did the right thing, not trying to ship the virus to us. What if it had broken in transit?"

Billy went on as if he hadn't heard her. "They won't stop. They'll keep coming after us until we're dead – or they are. You should…you should go back to D.C. It'll be safe there. I'll call Graves, have him set up a flight back—"

"_No_," Rebecca said forcefully. Her next words were out of her mouth before she had the chance to consider the wisdom behind them: "I'm not leaving you." She stopped there. Silence filled the room, making her feel suddenly and incredibly awkward.

So be it. She'd wondered for years what she would do if she and Billy ever reunited, and one thing had never varied, not in any of the scenarios she had come up with: she wouldn't leave him behind again. No matter what it came down to – his life, hers, both of theirs – she wouldn't let him go alone this time.

And besides, she was an Alliance agent. Officially field trained or not, she had a job to do, and that job involved tracking down the men and women who came up with the T-Loki virus and putting a stop to it. She added, "This is _my_ mission, anyway. I have a duty to figure out who's behind this. If they want this sample back, they're going to have to fight me for it. I can't let them have this."

"Then what do you suggest?" Billy asked, his voice flat.

Rebecca swallowed. Once again she wracked her brain, trying to come up with a brilliant plan of action. None came. "I don't know yet. But Chris might. And _he's_ on his way."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, if this wasn't a long time coming, I don't know what is. D: Words cannot express how terribly sorry I am that I took such a long hiatus. I hadn't ever intended to. Life...well, in a nutshell, my life pretty much turned upside down after I posted chapter 4. Things only really came back together about October last year, and that's about when I picked Down the Line back up again and started looking it over. I started with the outline (made some excellent changes there) and in January I started revising everything - and I do mean everything.

Every chapter prior to this one has been rewritten. The exact degree of revisions varies - chapter one is mostly the same, chapter two is very different after the first scene, chapters three and four have some additions but were also pared down. Even this chapter went through several major revisions before I finally settled on this one. I probably won't edit them again before I finish the story completely, but know that I never consider my job completely over and done with - so if you find any typos, canon errors, or other bits you'd like to point out to me, please feel free. While I'm eternally grateful to my beta and all the work she's done for me, every set of eyes sees something different.

If you're a new reader, welcome to the newest, shiniest chapter of Down the Line. If you're a returning reader, thank you so much for coming back. I hardly deserve it after leaving you hanging for so long. I hope you find that everything is still just as fun and exciting as you remember. 3

I make no promises as to when the next chapter will be posted, only that it will be _much sooner_ than two years from now. I plan on finishing the entirety of this fic before RE6 comes out in November, though whether or not I'll have everything posted by then remains to be seen. (I'd set Damnation as my deadline, but it doesn't have quite the concrete release date yet. When/if it does, I'll probably revise my own deadlines to match. Here's to hoping the mysterious silhouette is our beloved Billy!)


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